


Preserving Hope

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Extra Treat, Gen, Gondor, Second Age, War, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: As Minas Ithil falls, Isildur's wife makes one last, desperate race.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> *sneaks in late treat* I hope you enjoy this, Zdenka!

Smoke and fog creep through the city, and Eldalótë hears screams as she runs, winding her way through the streets, pushing through the masses of soldiers retreating in the opposite direction, through the the people of Minas Ithil fleeing the hosts of Sauron

“Fall back! _Fall back_!”

The cry rings in Eldalótë's ears as she runs. Sauron's army crept under the cover of a feigned darkness to the very gates of the city, to the heavy walls and guarded towers facing the Ephel Duath. They were taken almost at unawares, their guardposts giving them mere hours of warning, their men in utter disarray.

And, “The square!”, one sodier cries. “The Orcs have come almost to the square!”

The cry lends wings to Eldalótë's feet, and she runs, and runs, and runs.

The city is breached. The city cannot be breached. Mere months ago, they thought Sauron _dead_. Shock still clouds Eldalótë's mind even as she runs, runs with the wind to the centre of the city.

The noise of clashing weapons and of war-cries and death-cries deafens her as she nears the square, acrid smoke filling her lungs and making her eyes sting. The streets are almost clear, now; there are few men retreating here, and when Eldalótë bursts into the square, carnage greets her.

She stops. Regardless of the urgency of her task, she cannot help but be horrified, bile rising in her throat.

A line is being held across the square, but the soldiers are falling back, step by painful step. And _bodies_ , bodies everywhere, horrific masses of blood and gaping death-wounds, and the soldiers are almost halfway across the square, almost to the White Tree, to—

_The Tree._

With a fresh burst of purpose, Eldalótë makes one last, desperate sprint. It is too late for the Tree, but the sapling—barely a sapling, a sprout still—growing by it is all they need. The small plant, and hope is not lost, no matter how grave their defeat, a lesson learnt painfully in now-drowned Númenor.

She runs as if flying, ignoring the gagging that the smoke and the foul stench of death brings. Her sword remains in its sheath; it is useless, now, and all she needs do, _must_ do, is run.

Across the square, to the Tree, and there, a stroke of luck, for they were planning to plant the sapling properly in a few days' time, but now it is potted still, and Eldalótë tucks it carefully into her tunic.

When she turns, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the Orcs are almost upon them, a pocket of space around the Tree an oasis of calm as the battle rages around it, soldiers fighting mere feet away. And she _must_ leave, the sapling must be kept safe, but she draws her sword anyway, for now it will be nigh on impossible to flee without a fight, and—

“ _Mother?_ ”

Elendur is, suddenly, next to her, his face and body streaked with blood and dirt. “Mother, what—I thought that you were safe.”

“The sapling,” Eldalótë says, and the one word is enough; “Dirhael,” Elendur calls, “Take command!”

The man—Dirhael—barely looks up from where he is at the centre of the battle. “Yes, sir.”

And Elendur and Eldalótë move away, then, from the pocket of calm around the Tree, and the moment they do, it is a fight for survival. Instinct and years of training done in secret, away from the eyes of the King's Men back in Númenor, take over, and Eldalótë fights and fights and fights, to escape, to keep the precious sapling safe.

The next few hours are a blur of aching arms and leaden legs and stinging pain from the cuts and bruises Eldalótë acquires as she and Elendur run through the city. Of the empty streets of before, many are empty no longer; it is a long, circuitous route that the two of them take.

And when they reach the walls, another shock; Isildur's rear attack on Sauron's army had failed, abd the few survivors they find are ragged and bodied, grouped together with Isildur at their head.

But Isildur is there, and their children, and Eldalótë allows herself to _breathe_. She is a queen, first and foremost, and the losses to her people have left her reeling—many of the people of Ithilien had fled, with what little warning they had, but so many are still dead—but, in this moment, she rejoices for the lives of her family.

And the sapling.

She dares not take it out now—the noise of the approaching army grows louder, and, even as she embraces Isildur, the others move to leave—but she whispers, “the sapling with me.”

“Then,” Isildur says, and the weary lines of his face smooth out for a moment, “all hope is not lost.”


End file.
